


red moon rising

by penguinsledding



Series: red moon rising [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguinsledding/pseuds/penguinsledding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Tobias attacks Hannibal, Will sees him in a new light. Unfortunately, Hannibal's plans for him haven't changed.</p><p>A post-Fromage Murder Family AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the first chapter of my submission to this year's Spring Fling! I'll be posting a chapter a week until all four are up. The title is from Regret by St. Vincent (a pretty good Murder Family song), and the fic is 100% wish fulfillment. It's everything I've ever wanted in a Hannibal fic wrapped up into one post-Fromage monster. I hope you all enjoy it too :)

Will couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the caution tape, on the sketched outlines of Franklin and Tobias’ bodies on the smooth wood flooring. It marred the picture Hannibal had worked so hard to create. It marred the image Will himself had of this place. Solid, stable. Another boat adrift on a lonely sea.

Now, it looked storm-ravaged. Hannibal’s possessions had been bagged and labelled, tarnished like everything else Will touched. A part of him couldn’t help but look at it like a crime scene. He saw the body of Tobias Budge on the floor and imagined what Hannibal must have thought. What he must have felt as he lifted the statue over his head, blood boiling, adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

He shook himself from the image with an aspirin and tried to ignore the feeling of broken glass under his shoes. Ignored the papers strewn across the desk. Ignored the FBI agents still swarming like flies. Instead, he looked at Hannibal.

He was the most jarring image of all. 

Will had never seen the man disheveled. He’d never seen even a hair out of place. He was always meticulously dressed — the picture of professionalism. Now, he looked broken. There was blood on his face, his suit. When he stood to show how he broke Budge’s arm, he walked with a limp, and Will could see his shirt was partially untucked.

Most changed of all was the eyes. Hannibal had always been inscrutable to Will, one of the few blank slates he’d ever encountered. He wasn’t blank today. His eyes were wide, caring. They laid him bare. Every time he looked at him, he was reminded more of an abandoned dog. Lost, confused. Trusting. 

It made something swell in Will’s chest. He felt… tender, almost. Confronted with a stray in need of rescuing. 

It was unsettling, and he leaned away from it. He reminded himself Hannibal was a grown man, much more stable than him, in fact. He was capable of handling his own trauma. 

Still, he lingered. He stood behind Hannibal as he answered more questions from Jack and the forensics team. He watched as he played through the fight again and again. In a way, he was impressed. Hannibal was a smart fighter, using his surroundings to his advantage and relying on more than brute force to win. Will filed this away in his mind, catalogued it in the list of things he knew about Hannibal. The man was a chef, a therapist, a surgeon, a source of good in Will’s chaotic life. And now he knew he was a fighter too.

It was dark when Jack finally dismissed them. Hannibal still had a trail of blood on his chin, and Will fought the urge to wipe it away. 

“You shouldn’t drive home.”

The older man looked up at him from his chair. His eyes revealed a faint trace of surprise.

“I’ll drive you,” Will said, his voice gruff. He didn’t want to give Hannibal the opportunity to argue, so he slipped his coat on quickly.

 “Alright,” Hannibal said. He moved slowly, carefully collecting his possessions. Will turned his head as the doctor took one long look at his office. He wondered what Hannibal was thinking, if it was the same thing he had been contemplating earlier. If Hannibal was looking around and considering all the ways his safe, tidy life had been derailed and, more importantly, if he blamed Will for it.

The ride home was silent. Will didn’t want to turn on the radio for fear of playing the wrong thing; he didn’t have any CDs, and he couldn’t imagine any station appealing to Hannibal’s sensibilities. Instead, he listened to the steady rolling of the wheels against the pavement and hoped Hannibal didn’t mind the mess.

They pulled up to his home soon, the impressive three story building rising in front of the car. It had intimidated Will once, but now it looked inviting, comfortable. Hannibal had left a light on somewhere, and it shone like a homing beacon against the dark clouds surrounding it. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal said, turning towards him. His voice had regained some of its cool control, but there was something new in it, something that sounded remarkably like tenderness. Will flushed and turned his gaze towards the steering wheel. He flexed his fingers and focused on the way they looked against the cheap leather.

“No need to thank me.”

“But I want to.” 

“Then I want to thank you, too.”

“For what?” Hannibal asked. Will could see him in his periphery, and even now he looked solid, stable. Like a boat on the sea.

“The company,” he said, and this time he forced himself to turn towards Hannibal. The man held his gaze for a moment. His eyes were still bare, his mask broken. Will’s hand twitched, eager to touch him.

“I would appreciate yours again tomorrow,” Hannibal said. “I'm going to visit Abigail for lunch.”

“No appointments?”

“I feel it’s best if I take a break from psychiatric work,” he sighed. “For a few days, at least.”

Will’s chest twinged, and he was torn between relief and worry. If Hannibal wasn’t seeing patients, it was unlikely tonight’s event would repeat itself. It also meant he would have no reason to see Will. Will would have no excuse to see him. He turned away from Hannibal again.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “Gladly.” 

“Thank you.”

Hannibal touched his shoulder, and Will could feel his hand, warm through the fabric. For a moment, he could see the angel maker’s fire setting the touch alight, flickering in the dark car. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

**xxx**

The fire wouldn’t leave his mind the next day. 

It trailed him all the way to the hospital, to the visiting room, to the small, wrought-iron table. Just the memory of it was enough to burn him, a sensation just pleasant enough to be disturbing. It was less of an ache than a tingle. An almost gentle reminder of the night before. 

Abigail seemed unaware of any strangeness on his part. She looked better than the last time he’d seen her. There was more color in her cheeks. She was a bit tanned — he wondered if she’d been outside often and was struck again with the urge to take her fishing. He shut it down quickly. He couldn’t bear the look on her face if it was still too soon.

Jealousy stirred inside him. It wouldn’t be too soon for Hannibal to ask. The two had been thick as thieves when Will entered the room. Their conversation lingered in the air all through their awkward hellos. 

But watching Hannibal set their lunch down on perfectly made-up plates, he pushed the thoughts aside. Today was too good to worry. There was no monster lingering behind his eyelids, looming over their table. Abigail was smiling and talking. 

He smiled back. This was good. This was right.

The fire burned ever onwards.

**xxx**

Hannibal watched his companions as he cleared the table. They were a beautiful picture, framed by plants, perfectly lit by the large windows. Will looked more like Abigail than her own father had; they shared their dark hair, their wide eyes. He imagined drawing them here. Will's strong cheekbones, the bruises under his eyes. Her jeans digging sharply into her stomach.

They were both tired, out of place. Abigail's jacket stretched too tight around her shoulders, and she was pulling at her sleeves almost unconsciously. Will was shifting in his seat as well. He looked like a chastised child, unsure of where to put his hands or what to do.

Looking at them was like looking at half finished artwork. They were a sketch. A faded image of who he knew they had the potential to be. 

But they were filling in the lines. Hannibal smiled as he remembered his conversation with Abigail earlier that day. Her guilt was already fading, replaced easily with her restlessness, her desire to leave the hospital. Even Will was growing. True, he had not killed Tobias the day before like Hannibal had hoped he would, but he had survived the encounter. And every day, Hannibal could see him fall deeper into his own madness.

Walking back towards them, he marked the moment in his mind. It was one he’d want to remember.

**xxx**

The next day, Abigail opened her door to see Hannibal standing there, his jacket folded carefully over his arm. The corners of his lips quirked at the sight of her, and she smiled back warmly. 

"Hello," she said. She gestured for him to enter. As he strode in, she took note of the way he surveyed the room almost instinctually. Every movement he made was confident, and she followed his lead without thinking, closing the door behind her. "Are we waiting for Will again?" 

"No; just the two of us today. Is that a problem?" 

"No," she said. She paused, voice soft, and moved to sit on her bed. One leg dangled off the paisley comforter; the other was tucked underneath her. "Where are we going then?”

“I thought you might like the chance to purchase some of your own clothes.”

“These are my own clothes,” Abigail said automatically. She reached up to touch her scarf, and her sweater tightened painfully against her elbows. 

“Yes," Hannibal said. “And I would never insult Dr. Bloom’s impeccable taste. Nevertheless, I thought you might enjoy the excursion.” 

She took a moment to think, careful to look casual. From the corner of her eye, she studied his face, his eyes. Then she sat up straighter.

“Where would we go?” 

“Anywhere you’d like.”

She thought for a moment of her old clothes — bright colors, mini skirts, cotton blends. She’d bought most of them at the mall, spun in them in front of Marissa and worn them to school proudly the next day.

Her new outfits were the definition of fashionable, but they weren’t her. Then again, she didn’t even know who that was anymore. She shifted in her seat again and took in Hannibal — his eccentric suit, impeccable down to the last detail. He was a wall. A placid foundation built for her after everything had happened, but not too late for it to mean something. She smiled.

“Where would you go?” she said.

Hannibal returned her grin, and she knew she’d given the right answer.

**xxx**

The store was certainly nicer than the mall. Dark hardwood covered the floor, accented by arched ceilings covered in elegant wallpaper. Artfully dressed mannequins stood amongst racks of clothing. It reminded her of Hannibal’s office — lofty and almost unnecessarily impressive.

He led her upstairs, away from the suits and ties of the men’s section. Standing in the middle of it all, she felt like an imposter. She’d never so much as been in a store like this before. Her dad had been a thrift. He used to make her deerskin gloves every year so they wouldn’t have to buy new ones. 

And here was Hannibal, offering her a new wardrobe out of the blue, her second in only a few months. It was strange. They were so different, the two men, but with the same sturdiness that drew Abigail to them like a moth to a light. It made her chest ache, thinking of it, so she pushed the thoughts away before they could develop. Instead, she focused on the shopping. There were only so many things to think about jeans, after all. 

She mostly followed Hannibal’s lead, watching out of the corner of her eye to see which brands he picked, what cuts and styles. He had good taste, and she was content to let the pile of clothes on her arm grow ever larger.

Then her fingers brushed a piece of blue fabric, and they stilled.

Abigail set the clothes she’d been holding down and pulled the dress off the rack reverently. She held it in front of her, her breath catching in her throat.

The dress was navy and tight. It flared out in soft tiers near her knees, fabric cascading down in soft waves. She could see herself wearing it. Her hair up, the slope of her neck beautiful and enticing instead of marred.

It was impractical, to be sure. The kind of dress she could never justify buying. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at the price tag.

But she wanted it.

She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything material, wanted it more than food that wasn’t mushy and hospital appropriate, more than clothes that fit properly. She wanted to see herself look like the adult she’d been forced to be. To look like someone powerful. 

Hannibal noticed her preoccupation and stopped shopping to look at her. He smiled, and she wondered if he could see the hunger in her eyes.

“Beautiful,” he said. “And an excellent color for you.” 

“And expensive. I could never ask for it.” 

Even as she said it, her voice was keening, begging. She sounded like a wistful child.

“Then we won’t make you ask,” Hannibal smiled. “I’d like to buy it for you as much as you’d like to have it, so I see no need for such obligations.”

Abigail’s heart swelled, and she set the dress back on the rack carefully. Hannibal gave her a bewildered look.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. He was stiff for a moment, his hands still full of clothing, but he freed one arm to wrap around her back as well. 

“Of course,” he replied. She pulled away, still beaming, and reached for the dress again.

**xxx**

“I want to teach you to shoot a gun,” Will said in lieu of a greeting. 

Hannibal shut the front door behind him.

**xxx**

“You need to hold it tighter,” Will said.

Hannibal tightened his grip on the gun obediently. At Will’s request, he hadn’t worn a suit to the range, and he looked strange in his slacks and safety glasses. Or rather, he looked normal, like someone Will might see at the store. 

“Now use the other hand to steady it, and move your legs shoulder-length apart.”

Will watched as he did so and frowned. He nudged Hannibal’s shoe slightly with his foot.

“A bit wider.”

Hannibal did as he was told and turned his head to look back at Will. The younger man could see his blackened eye through the thick lenses, and something in him twinged.

“You never told me the reasoning behind this excursion,” Hannibal said.

“A precaution,” Will replied. He focused on Hannibal’s stance again. “Bend your knees and shift forward. Move your left foot up.”

“What am I preparing for?”

“A crazed patient. A mugger. Tobias Budge. Flex your elbow.”

“This week’s event seems unlikely to recur.”

“I’d rather not take any chances." 

“Aren’t I the one taking the chances?”

Will smiled wrily, stepping away from the doctor. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t bitter when Hannibal trapped him like this.

“You’re my friend. I’d rather not see you hurt. Now align your sights and focus.”

Hannibal obliged, turning his attention to the gun. His hand steadied. His breath evened out.

“Fire,” Will said.

The gun went off in quick succession, three, four shots ringing in the air. Will nodded approvingly after seeing that around half had made the target. It was good, for a first try.

Hannibal clicked on the safety and unloaded the gun, turning to look at Will.

“My ears are ringing.”

“Common side effect of loud noises at close range." 

“Common side effect of shooting.”

“I want you to buy a gun.”

“I assumed." 

“You’ll need to get a license. A concealed carry, if possible.”

“Alright,” Hannibal said. His face was composed, but Will could see a glint of that same vulnerable something in his eyes. They shone below the goggles, and Will’s stomach twisted in response.   

“Thank you,” he said. “For listening to me.” 

“I should be the one thanking you,” Hannibal replied. “I would be lying if I said this did not make it easier to think of returning to work tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should just agree not to thank each other,” Will said. “All it seems to do is make things more complicated. Besides, it won’t really be easy until you actually have the gun.”.

“I would imagine. And if you insist, I won’t say thank you; I’ll just think of some other way to repay you.” 

“You’ve done enough for me.”

Hannibal shook his head, his face resolute.

“You’ve done me a favor and given me a great deal of your time. I’ll repay you.” 

“No money.”

“No,” he agreed. “No money. Something less vulgar than that, to be sure. You’ve introduced me to something new. I’ll introduce you to something new as well.”

**xxx**  

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter requests the pleasure of your company at the Baltimore Opera’s premiere performance this Saturday._  

Will stared down at the invitation, written carefully on paper as thick as cardstock. It looked more like parchment than paper. Like a relic from some long forgotten time. 

He should’ve known Hannibal’s ‘something new’ would be something like this. Swarms of people, a lengthy opera, more money than he could stand to be around. Just thinking about it made him itch for an aspirin. 

He’d tell Hannibal nicely that he couldn’t accept the invitation. He’d call him now, so Hannibal could find someone else to take his ticket.

Turning the invitation over restlessly in his hands, he saw something written in perfect cursive on the back. 

_Abigail will be attending as well. We look forward to seeing you._

He froze, and the phone laid useless on its receiver. 

**xxx**

Hannibal was cooking dinner when it finally rang. He smiled, already aware of who would be calling.

“Will,” he said. “So nice to hear from you.”

“You didn’t have to buy me a tux.”

Hannibal smiled as he beat his eggs. Only Will could make rudeness acceptable.

“Did you own one?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I could’ve rented one. Or bought my own.” 

“I assumed you’d loathe to shop, particularly for something you don’t see as practical. If I was wrong, I apologize.” 

“You weren’t wrong,” Will said. His voice was gruff, but Hannibal knew he wasn’t truly annoyed. “Can I at least say thank you?” 

“I thought we’d agreed never to thank one another.”

“That was before I knew there’d be this much to thank you for.” 

“Clothes are nothing,” Hannibal said, shifting the discussion smoothly. “Not compared to the pleasure of your company.”

Low and soft, Will laughed. Hannibal could practically see him. Hands fidgeting, pushing up his glasses nervously. Sometimes, he was so easy to disarm.

“You will still be attending the opera with me then?” 

“Yes,” Will said, exasperated. “Of course.”

“Good,” Hannibal said, and he smiled at the click of the receiver.

**xxx**

It was days later when Abigail smoothed out her skirts and turned slightly, admiring the way the dress flared around her legs. She watched herself in the mirror and resisted the urge to spin like a child.

She looked older. Her neck sloped elegantly, and her eyes, usually wide and innocent, looked dark and beautiful. Hannibal had taken her to another store to buy makeup. It was understated, lovely. She'd used it to cover the thin line of her scar as well, and she could almost pretend it had never been there at all. Looking in the mirror, she felt like a new person. That is, until she was jolted back to reality by a knock on her open doorway.

"Abigail?" Hannibal said. "May I come in?"

She turned to smile at him. He was more somber looking than she'd seen him, wearing a black tuxedo instead of his usual bright plaids. His tie was patterned and navy, and as she moved towards him, she noticed it matched her dress perfectly. 

"You look lovely," he said smoothly. His eyes flicked over her neck, and she touched it gingerly, flushing as she covered the area where her scar should be. She prayed he wouldn't say anything.

"I have something for you."

Abigail looked up again. He was holding a heavy silver necklace, and she walked towards him obediently, turning so he could clasp it around her neck.

Hannibal stepped away, and she looked in the mirror. It was a good choice; the silver shone against the dress’ dark silk. 

"You can stay here tonight," he said. "I've checked you out until tomorrow morning."

"Can I stay here for the rest of the week too?" she asked, voice petulant.

"We shouldn't push Dr. Bloom too much. That said, the room is yours whenever you are here."

Abigail smiled at him in the mirror and turned to look around. Now that she knew it was hers, she was surprised she hadn’t noticed earlier. The room was more understated than the rest of the house, and everything looked brand new. The closet was empty, filled only with a few hangers and a small set of drawers. The furniture was burnished wood. Everything was beautiful, but minimal. It looked like something she might have picked out for herself. 

“Thank you,” she said. She moved to sit on her bed and began to put on the silver earrings she’d bought to go with the dress. “For everything.” 

Hannibal smiled at her, and the doorbell rang.

**xxx**

Will resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants. He could see it in his head already, damp marks on his thighs, Hannibal's disapproving stare. It was all he could do to avoid staining the tuxedo on his way over. He'd fed the dogs and let them out before he'd changed, and not a single surface in his house had been touched when he exited. He wasn't this careful in a crime scene. 

He felt costumed, an imposter in an expensive tux. Even with his limited experience, he could tell it was nicer than anything he'd ever owned. It was only accentuated by the feeling of his cheap dress shirt under the jacket. It had a well-hidden stain on the upper right shoulder and hadn’t been worn outside a classroom in years. Against the tux and navy tie Hannibal had provided, it looked like tissue paper. 

Of course, Hannibal was perfectly put together. Everything looked crisp and effortlessly perfect, from his blue plaid tie to his well-shined shoes. Even Abigail looked like she belonged. Her hair was tied up in an elegant knot, and the necklace she wore looked even more expensive than Will’s tuxedo. She and Hannibal were an impressive pair — a proud father and his sophisticated, nearly-grown daughter.

It wasn’t necessarily an image Will disliked. In all honesty, standing in Hannibal’s foyer, it was one he wished he could be apart of. He wanted to fit, to be a part of their darling family.

He just… didn’t. And he couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how hard he tried. His dress shoes were scuffed, his shirt tissue paper. His mind was on fire. Nothing about him was right for them. 

Still, Will reminded himself, Hannibal had invited him, and Hannibal knew more about the dark recesses of his mind than anyone. Abigail had smiled when she answered the door. They wanted him there, even if he didn’t understand why. 

He just wished the thought was more comforting.

**xxx**

It seemed Hannibal knew everyone at the opera.

They hadn't even made it through the entrance hall when they were bombarded by well-dressed annoyances. It seemed every rich person in Baltimore had come out to impede their progress towards their seats, and they all wanted to know something about him. Naturally, they didn’t say it outright. They found charming ways to hint at their questions, and Hannibal found even more charming ways to answer them, leaving Will and Abigail more or less out of the conversation. Will didn’t particularly mind.

Rather, he was beginning to regret coming. There were people pressing in on him at all sides, and it wasn’t just Hannibal’s friends. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a room this full. His lecture hall after he came back from Minnesota, probably. It made his breath catch in his throat. He was unsure of where to move, where to look. Compared to him, Abigail was doing swimmingly. She stood on Hannibal’s other side and smiled on cue.

Will wanted to follow her lead and roll with the tide. He wanted to join in the conversation, if only so Hannibal wouldn’t have to explain bringing a deaf mute to the opera with him. Instead, he found himself in the way of everything, shuddering every time someone bumped or grazed him.

They just kept sliding past him, touching him, talking to him. They wouldn’t stop coming, coming, coming. A man asked his name. A waiter said excuse me. They were everywhere.

Another woman moved towards them, her maroon dress slipping off her shoulder in a studied way. Will couldn’t focus on anything she was saying. There was a couple trying to walk next to him, and he didn’t know where to move or what to do to make it easier for them. He felt himself freeze.

"Will?" Hannibal said, and his voice came from underwater. It rose quickly, lapping at his heels, choking him. Will wiped sweat from his brow.

The woman stared at him. She was a gaping fish with blank eyes. She bubbled and bled, red scales scraped from her body to reveal the flesh underneath. Gutted. Will's breath came in gasps.

"I need to use the restroom," he said, and he fled, leaving the ocean behind him.

**xxx**  

Hannibal’s eyes flicked carefully from Abigail’s face to Will’s retreating back. She turned her head towards him, eyes narrowing, and he nodded. He hummed, pleased, as she walked away.

**xxx**

“Too much for you?”

Will looked up to see Abigail standing in the dark hallway. Her eyes flicked from his face to the empty spot next to him, and he moved over obligingly to allow her room on the bench. Something twisted in his stomach while she sat, a gut-wrenching shame. Too much for you. Not stable. They all deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t fading.

“No.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow, and he looked away, focusing on the bulletin board in front of him. The opera house’s office wing was quiet, isolated. Only the faintest traces of the crowd could be heard.

“Yes," he said. "Of course.”

“You’re not a big fan of social interaction, are you?”

He chuckled darkly.

“What gave me away?”

“Just about everything,” Abigail said. Peeking at her through his peripheral vision, he saw she was staring at her feet. “It was weird for me too.”

“You seemed fine.”

“So did you, if I didn’t know you.”

“Do you know me?” he asked. “Do I know you?”

Abigail didn’t answer. Her flat dragged across the floor, a soft scraping sound echoing through the hall. Will wanted to apologize, to run, to say the right thing for once. He wanted to be Hannibal. To be able to connect with her so effortlessly.  

“You know," she said, her voice lilting. "All those people think you and Hannibal are dating.”

Will froze. The bulletin board clicked in and out of focus, and he drew a single, shuddering breath.

"I think you misinterpreted them."

Abigail shook her head. Her lips turned upward in a smile. Will's jaw twitched, and he pretended not to feel the flames licking his shoulder where Hannibal had touched him last.

"If anything, they think you two are together. A wealthy old man and his young girlfriend — it's not exactly unheard of."

"No," Abigail said. "Hannibal's introduced me as his charge. Not exactly romantic."

This was news to Will. He'd been too focused on his own discomfort to hear anything Hannibal had said when he wasn't speaking directly to him.

"How has he been introducing me?"

Her smile grew wider, and she leaned forward, pitching her voice deeper and clipping her vowels.

"There must be some mystery to my life outside the opera," she said, and Will laughed.

"Good impression."

"Alana taught it to me."

Will closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. It was cold against his head. Alana. Not stable.

"You talk to Alana about Hannibal?"

"And you. Sometimes."

"I won't ask."

"I know."

**xxx**

Abigail stared at her fingers and remembered Hannibal’s calculated stare. Wondered what he would want her to say next. If he’d want her to tell him more.

Before she could decide, Will spoke again.

"I talk to Hannibal about you."

She thought for a moment.

"What do you say?"

"I thought we weren't asking."

"You weren't asking."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him chewing on his cheek. A part of her already wished she hadn’t asked. She didn’t know if it had been the right thing to do; she didn’t know what she would say in response or even what she wanted _him_ to say.

"We talk about our obligations."

She touched the chain of her necklace. Her chest ached; his words tugged at her heart, pulling at everything she’d come to rely on over the past few months.

She imagined Hannibal checking her out of the hospital out of obligation. Buying her clothes out of obligation. Talking to her out of obligation. Alana, Will — all of them, her own personal repairmen, here from four to six. Until she was ‘better.’

"Am I your obligation?"

Will turned towards her slowly, cautiously. His eyes burned with something familiar. Something that made her flinch.

"No,” he said, and he grabbed her hand. He pressed it between his and locked eyes with her. "You're important, Abigail."

Before she could think, she’d pulled her hand away. Will’s face fell.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft. She didn’t want to; she didn’t want to say anything, wanted to say everything. _Just because you killed my dad doesn’t mean you get to be him._ Her thoughts were running past her. _Cannibals._ Hannibal wants, Will wants, I want. She couldn’t catch up to them. Hannibal wants, I want, Will wants, Hannibal wants. Her fingers were pale against her dress. The silky fabric solidified her resolve. Hannibal wants.

“You’re important too,” she said. She forced herself to turn back towards him. Imagined herself, out of the asylum, sleeping in her new room at Hannibal’s. She smiled.

He smiled back at her, and she stood, offering him her hand.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go sit down.”

The two of them walked towards the opera hall together.

**xxx**

They found Hannibal easily in the opera hall. He was a dominating figure, talking and smiling with those seated around him. Will took a deep, calming breath. His mind had stopped racing since his conversation with Abigail. For the two of them, he could be stable. He could be good enough.

They sat, and the lights dimmed. Will’s fingers dug into the armrest, stomach swooping in sudden, unexplainable anxiety. Then the music began.

It was boring, at first. The songs were pretty enough, but he didn’t understand them, didn’t particularly care to follow. It was like every other artsy event he’d sought to avoid. Without knowing why, he felt disappointment build in his chest.

But it grew. It changed. The opening song ended with a whirl, and they rushed into the next scene, and the next, anticipation rising. And abruptly, staring open-mouthed at the stage, Will knew exactly why Hannibal had taken him here.

A knife glinted in the stage lights. The woman, who Will gathered was the main character, looked terrified, devastated. A man rushed towards her.

A shudder went through him when she struck. Fake blood gushed across her hands. Her voice rose through the room like an uncaged bird, terror and joy mingling in every note. Will could see himself in her eyes. In the enjoyment that she wanted to hide. It was shooting Hobbs all over again. It was every nightmare he’d ever had, every dream that didn’t horrify him enough.

He could feel her guilt heavy in his chest as the opera continued. The plot was hard to follow, but he could understand the drama. The actors were clad in gorgeous costumes, singing with passion he’d never heard before. They looked horrified. They looked betrayed.

But the actress continued to draw his eye. He ached with her. She weighed him down.

Next to him, Hannibal seemed to be having a revelation. He looked more emotional than Will had ever seen him, his eyes glazed over with tears, his mouth open in rapt attention. He was completely immersed in the performance.

It was a new side of him, one that struck a chord in Will. The older man cared so much for beauty. For tailored suits and fine dining. But it was more than that, too.

Hannibal understood Will. He knew his darkest secrets, knew everything he was and everything he didn’t want to be. And he liked him. He wanted to know about him. Hannibal found the beauty in Will. He made him forget his darkness. Will’s chest swelled, and the flames on his shoulder began to travel down his back.

It took an eternity for the opera to end, every twist lasting long beyond its time. He couldn’t stop seeing himself in the main character, in her confusion, her depression. He’d lost his breath by the time they reached the conclusion.

She was arguing with someone in song, their voices flowing together and overlapping. She struck out, and they fought, their movements like a dance.

She ended on top of him. The knife was in her hands, shining despite the rusty stain on the blade. Her voice rang out in a profession of guilt. It was poisoned by self-hatred.

The knife rose, her target unclear. It fell in a graceful arch as the curtains closed.

Hannibal was the first on his feet.

**xxx**  

Abigail stood just after Hannibal, clapping as the rest of the audience joined them. Her heart was in her throat.

She knew why Hannibal had taken her here. It was in the staged blood on the young woman’s pale hands. The look on her face when she’d killed. She could see them overlaid, her hands, her face, her own terror rising through the room like the woman’s voice had.

The rest of the opera had been a blur. She knew the woman was struggling with something, that it was some decision, something that revolved around the violence. She knew she killed again in the end. For protection, for silence. It didn’t matter that they didn't know who, the man or herself. She knew instinctively that the woman had done what Abigail would’ve done. She'd saved herself.

She turned to look at Hannibal’s face, at the tears welling up in his eyes. Behind him, she could see Will. Even he looked interested. Enraptured.

A part of her couldn’t help but thank Hannibal. The opera hadn’t been a condemnation. It wasn’t a celebration either. It was recognition. Understanding.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it, fighting back tears.

She knew exactly why he’d taken her here.

**xxx**  

The opera had done something to Will, taken the fire that lingered from Hannibal’s touch and spread it across his body. Everything in him was lightly tingling now. Warm and bolstered by the flame.

It kept him afloat as they moved through the crowded reception hall. He could see it evaporating the water that had been licking at his heels. In front of him, Hannibal parted the ocean with little effort. He moved gracefully through the throng and left a clear path for Abigail and Will to follow.

The path led to a more private reception area. There was a man in a tuxedo guarding the door, looking more like a guest than a bouncer. Hannibal spoke to him for a moment, voice friendly, and they stepped inside.

The difference in the atmosphere was palpable, even for Will. The women here stood in dresses even more expensive than Abigail’s, the men’s tuxedos the only ones in the venue that could be compared to Hannibal’s. Their faux laughter filled the room.

It made Will’s shoulders stiffen. His ease faded with every step. In the general reception area, there had been more people like him. People who didn’t spend every weekend attending galas. Now, he was surrounded by Hannibal’s people. The water licked at his heels again.

Hannibal turned to look at him, floundering in the elegant hall. A smile tugged at his lips, and his hand touched the small of Will’s back lightly. The simple, guiding gesture set his flesh aflame. He shifted in the direction Hannibal had indicated, but all he could feel was the fire licking at his jacket, spreading almost pleasantly across his back. He felt sure that if he looked back, he would see it scorching his tuxedo. He looked down instead.

The flames were spreading down his legs and up his arms. He knew he should be afraid, seeing his flesh burning, but all he could focus on was the water drying and moving away from his feet. He looked up and smiled at Hannibal.

Somewhere in the room, a camera clicked.

**xxx**  

Hours later, Hannibal left Will and Abigail in the lobby and went to find the valet, satisfaction swelling in his stomach. They had reacted exactly as he’d hoped to the opera. He remembered Will’s surprised interest, Abigail’s open-mouthed stare. He himself had thought it a lovely performance, one of their best yet. He’d been proud to stand and applaud.

There had been a slight snag when Will left the entrance hall, but he’d sent Abigail after him and was satisfied with the results. Will had come back and played his part much more easily. Later, in the reception, he’d even joined in on the conversation. Hannibal had watched him fall into their patterns of speech, mimicking them almost absentmindedly. He smiled to himself again, remembering.

He was nearly to the valet desk when he was stopped by another familiar face. The woman was a photographer for the Sun, a friendly, bumbling girl.

“Dr. Lecter,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping you could tell me about your guests tonight.”

Hannibal turned slightly to face her, raising an eyebrow.

“My guests?”

“Oh,” she said, and her face flushed. “I don’t mean… I just need a caption. For the photo.”

“Photo?” Hannibal said. His mind whirred. He’d assumed the paper would write on the opening of the opera. They always did, sometimes more ham-handedly than others. His photo had been featured before, actually, splattered across the society section at various openings and art functions. He was always alone, occasionally with friends or acquaintances. Never with a date. Never with family.

“Yes,” she said. “Here, I’ll show it to you.”

Hannibal nodded his assent and moved towards the woman, who tilted her camera towards him. The photo on the small screen made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. He faced someone unseen by the camera. On either side of him stood Will and Abigail, elegant and beautiful. Abigail’s body was turned forward, only her face tilted upward towards him, but Will — his entire body was aligned in respect to Hannibal’s, his chest facing him, looking up into his face. His smile was wide and genuine; his eyes were soft. He looked like Hannibal was his center of gravity. Like he revolved around his every movement.

As he turned to the photographer, Hannibal could feel his grin growing wolfishly wide. He began to speak.

**xxx**  

The next morning, Abigail woke slowly, luxuriously, savoring the feeling of the heavy comforter against her skin. The bed was warm and plush. It felt worlds apart from her thin twin mattress at the hospital.

She was wearing pajamas Hannibal had brought her yesterday. He’d clearly purchased them for her, but she didn’t mind. The cotton was soft against her skin, and the pants fit her perfectly. For once, her waistband didn’t dig into her stomach. On the floor, she could see he’d left her a pair of slippers.

She slipped them on before she left the room. Downstairs, she could hear something sizzling.

“Hello,” she said as she entered the kitchen. Hannibal looked up from his cooking and smiled invitingly at her. He looked odd in his robe. More vulnerable than she’d ever seen him.

She moved to stand in front of the island. Despite the early hour, he seemed totally awake and completely engrossed in the meal. She stifled a yawn.

“What’re you making?” she asked.

“A protein scramble. I made the same for Will once.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow at him. He looked up at her for a moment, his face calculating, and returned to his cooking.

“You can ask.”

“Are you two… involved?”

Hannibal removed the pan from heat and began portioning the eggs onto their plates. His voice was level.

“Not romantically, no.”

“But you want to be.”

“I would not be disinterested.”

“So yes,” she said. She held the side of the counter so she’d have something to do with her hands, watching him carefully.

His face was turned downwards towards the food, and it left his expression shrouded in darkness. She shifted her gaze to the ceiling. It was impossible to read him, to know his limits. Her head hurt just trying.

“What about him?" she said eventually. "Is he disinterested?”

He smiled at her now, picking up both of their plates.

“Now that,” he said. “I cannot answer. Come; bring those glasses.”

She grabbed them, letting the topic drop as she trailed after him into the dining room.

**xxx**

After she had finished her meal, Hannibal lifted her empty plate from the table smoothly. A moment later, he set an envelope down where it had been.

“What’s this?” she smiled, reaching for the paper. Hannibal smiled back at her as he returned to his seat. “Another invitation?”

“No,” he said. “A gift.”

Abigail tilted her head at him, still grinning. Her fingers carefully slid under the fold of the envelope. It was thick, the paper crisp and cream-colored. She was careful to tear it open along the lines.

Inside the envelope was a thick wad of bills. She pulled it out and fought back a gasp. She could count 10, 15 bills — and they were all twenties. Setting it to the side, she removed the rest of the envelope’s contents.

There was a thin piece of plastic she quickly recognized as some sort of debit card. Engraved across the front was her name. Abigail Hobbs. She held it reverently for a moment before moving on.

The final thing in the envelope was a simple piece of paper. She immediately knew Hannibal had not been the one to print it. The material was too cheap, too thin. Unfolding it, she found a bank statement. This time she couldn’t help but gasp.

It was more money than she could have ever imagined having. Enough for her to live the rest of her life without working. Enough to explain Hannibal’s lavish lifestyle.

And it was in a letter addressed to her.

She turned to look at Hannibal for the first time since she’d opened the envelope. He looked pleased, almost inordinately satisfied. Wariness coiled in her belly.

“Is this really mine?”

“Yes,” he said. “All of it.”

She shifted again, looking down at the table.

“It’s not connected to me in any way,” he said, answering the question that hung heavy in the air. “You may do what you please with it.”

Looking up, Abigail scrutinized his face. That smug look lingered in his eyes, but it lay behind a look of genuine affection. The bills still in her hand, she measured the two against each other. Hannibal’s love for her against the secrets she knew he still hid.

She stood.

“Thank you,” she said, moving towards him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and blinked away the fast-approaching tears. Awkwardly, he raised a hand and rested it against her arm.

“Of course,” he said. His smile grew, and Abigail ignored the churning in her stomach until it was nothing more than the heavy weight of contentment.

**xxx**  

“I saw you in the paper,” Beverly said, snapping on her blue gloves. Wil blinked at her, tearing his attention away from the corpse on the table.

“What?”

The totem pole stuck behind his eyes, and he fought to bring Beverly into focus. Her voice fuzzed and crackled as she answered.

“At the opera.”

“What?”

“With Dr. Lecter.”

He snapped back to reality.

“We were in the paper?” he asked. “Wait, you read the society section?”

Beverly shrugged.

“I have layers. And yes, cozied up with Dr. Lecter and Abigail Hobbs.”

“We weren’t cozied up,” Will said instinctually. He paused. “Can I see it?”

Beverly smirked and slipped off her gloves. She dug into her bag, pulling out a thick paper.

Will flipped through the first few sections. He noted the completed crossword — in a handwriting that was definitely not Beverly’s — before flipping forward again until he reached the society pages.

Once there, he froze.

The photo of them dominated the page, paired with a shot of the opera performance itself. Hannibal was the focus. He was talking to someone out of frame, looking aristocratic and elegant in his perfectly tailored tux. Next to him stood Abigail. Her face was tilted towards Hannibal, her half-smile exactly appropriate for the surroundings. They looked lovely. But Will. He was — well, he looked unrecognizable.

His face was open, unguarded. He’d never seen himself smile like that. It reminded him more than anything of Winston, of the overwhelming love and dedication that shone in his dog’s eyes. His whole body was turned towards Hannibal. He looked like his movements revolved around the hand on his back.

Horrified as he was by the photo, it took him a minute to notice the caption. He read it quickly, his dread mounting with every word.

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter and family at the opening of the Baltimore Opera’s newest show. Dr. Lecter has been a supporter of the opera since his graduation from John Hopkins University._

Beverly coughed, and Will’s head shot up.

“I take it you didn’t know about this then.”

He shook his head, wiping his forehead roughly.

“You could say that.”

“You look good,” she offered, grinning. “You should dress up around the office more often.”

“Not likely.”

“I bet you would if Dr. Lecter asked you.”

Will pushed that thought from his mind and turned towards her.

“I’m not seeing him.”

“Yeah, and Ross was over Rachel.”

“What about you?” he asked, his voice accusatory. “Who are you dating?”

Beverly turned back towards the corpse, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not dating anyone.”

“The crossword’s filled out, but it’s not your handwriting. Someone in your house was reading the society pages, and I know it wasn’t you. Seems like you’re dating someone.”

“Fine. I’m seeing someone. But that doesn’t mean we’re dating.”

“And Dr. Lecter and I aren’t dating.”

Beverly sighed.

“Fine.”

She turned back to the cadaver, a smile creeping across her face.

“I bet you want to, though.”

Will rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall in the corner. He could feel the back of his neck burning hot, sweat collecting under his dark curls. He knew his lack of response was as good as a confession.

“So tell me,” she said. “This has got to be some pretty weird territory to traverse. Like, is he your therapist, or is he your friend?”

“He’s never officially been my therapist,” he said. He knew it didn’t answer her question.

“Ever consider getting a real therapist?”

Will’s back stiffened. He imagined sitting across from a new therapist, in an office he’d been in a thousand times. Industrial carpet. Generic, calming art. He couldn’t picture his secrets in a room like that. Couldn’t imagine whispered words about Garrett Jacob Hobbs lingering between the beige walls.

More than that, though, he couldn’t imagine telling Hannibal. He couldn’t help but think of it as a betrayal. Hannibal had earned the contents of his mind, had earned them as no other person had ever been able to. A part of Will thought he deserved them now, for as long as he wanted them.

“No,” he said. The bile in his tone revealed more of his thoughts than he’d intended, and Beverly moved on from the idea quickly.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I get it. I’m just worried, is all.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

She turned to look at him over her shoulder. He squirmed. For the first time that day, he remembered the heavy bags under his eyes. The broken button on his shirt. He must look like hell.

“Yeah, I don’t have to worry about you,” she said after a long pause, the sarcasm evident in her tone. “When’s the last time you ate?”

He didn’t answer and tucked his hands into his armpits.

“Look, I’m just asking because I care about you. Crazy one-liners, stupid dog fetish and all.”

She walked towards him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“You alright?”

He nodded, looking down at his shoes.

“Alright," she said. "Just let me know when you aren’t.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I am absolutely in awe of the response to this fic — thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and commented, I'm so grateful to all of you. In case you didn't notice, the fic is now updating on Mondays. Sundays just aren't as good of a day for me, and now that I've met the first posting date for Spring Fling, I get to make my own rules.
> 
> This chapter is where the fic really starts to clash/time up with canon. Essentially, cases and minor character development are still happening in the same way. The primary differences are just in Will's encephalitis, Hannibal/Will's relationship, aaand basically everything about Abigail's plotlines. I will steal bits and pieces of dialogue from the episodes because who writes Hannibal better than Hannibal writers, but blah blah I don't own them. Any way, long author's note short, enjoy! And don't forget to keep leaving feedback. :)

“There was a photo of us,” Will said with little fanfare, looking up at where Hannibal stood on the balcony. “In the Sun.”

Hannibal looked back at him. His stare was long, measured.

“I know.”

“Did you happen to read the caption?”

“I did. I considered requesting a correction.”

“What stopped you?”

Hannibal turned back to his book, pivoting on his heels to return it to its place on the shelf. He pulled out another before looking at Will again.

“I could not think of a phrasing that would better suit Abigail.”

“One that wouldn’t identify her.”

“One that wouldn’t other her.”

“You think I want to other her?”

“No,” Hannibal said. “Which is why I chose not to request a correction.”

Frustrated, Will averted his gaze to the window. It was impossible not to stare at Hannibal in his peripherie. Even climbing down the ladder, the book Will requested held tight in one hand, he looked graceful, elegant. The younger man remembered Tobias’ blood on that surface and wondered for a moment if Hannibal had ever fallen from that balcony. If Will could catch him if he did. He stepped closer almost instinctually.

“What if I wanted one?” he said. “A correction, that is?” Hannibal set the book next to Will’s coat.

“Do you?” he asked, moving towards him.

“What if I did?”

“I assumed you would put Abigail’s feelings before your own.”

“Is that what you did?”

Hannibal was standing behind him now, hidden from Will’s frame of vision. It was unsettling, and Will wanted to turn to face him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of what he might see.

“There was no need to think of my own feelings,” Hannibal said.

“Why not?”

“They were simply irrelevant. What of yours?”

“What of my feelings?”

“Yes, Will.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Dr. Lecter, I’d think you were trying to psychoanalyze me.”

“Would you prefer if I used more direct terms? How does that make you feel, perhaps?”

Will shifted uncomfortably.

“Sometimes.”

“How does that make you feel, then?”

“The photo? Or your consideration for my feelings?”

“Either. Both.”

“I don’t know,” he said, forcing himself to look towards Hannibal, to gauge his reaction. The doctor’s face was maddeningly blank. “Isn’t it your job to figure that out?”

Hannibal smiled, leaning back against his desk.

“I suppose so. Tell me, how did you first find out about the photograph?”

“Beverly.”

“Ms. Katz? Why did she bring it to your attention?”

Will turned from Hannibal again. He sank into one of the armchairs and closed his eyes.

“She was… concerned. Worried we had an unethical relationship.”

“Is that a worry you and Ms. Katz share?”

“She asked me if you were my therapist or my friend, and I couldn’t answer,” Will sighed. “That seems pretty unethical.”

“You can cross boundaries without violating them.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Crossing boundaries?”

“What do you think it is we’re doing?”

“Toeing the line.”

“You understand her concerns, then,” Hannibal said. Will leaned forward in his chair, looking down at his hands. They were palm-to-palm, his elbows resting against his knees. His stomach churned.

“I understand them,” he said slowly. “I just don’t agree with them."

"Who do you agree with then?"

"I don't know. You, I guess. This doesn't feel wrong."

"What's this?"

"Friendship. Therapy. Abigail."

"How does it feel, then?"

Will stood again, reaching for the book Hannibal had gotten him, flipping through it for the information that was supposed to help him with the case. His throat felt closed up, tight. He didn’t know if he could answer audibly even if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. He wanted to change the subject, to move on. He wanted to do what Hannibal had asked. He wanted to be able to decide on something for once, to feel solid, certain. He answered anyway.

"Good," he muttered.

"What did you say, Will?" Hannibal asked.

"Good," he said louder, bitterness heavy in his tone. He turned back towards Hannibal, pages of the book wrinkled in his clenched fists.

"Now tell me more about this theory."

Hannibal smiled and stepped towards him again.

**xxx**

“Do you have a copy of it?” Abigail asked. Next to her, Alana shook her head.

“I saw it in my friend’s paper.”

“How did I look?” Abigail said, a sneer lingering behind the words. The older woman’s expression was one of barely hidden disapproval. Her eyes crinkled with a smile, but absent was her usual professional detachment. Instead, Abigail could sense anger, irritation. She couldn’t stand to look at it any longer and fixed her gaze on her shoes. Even the muddy grounds of the hospital were a preferable sight.

“You looked nice,” Alana said. Her voice was friendlier than her face. “Did Hannibal buy you the dress?”

She ignored the question, and her fingers dug deeper into the skin of her elbows. In her periphery, she saw Alana’s gaze drop to her crossed arms and then return to her face. Abigail uncrossed them quickly.

“How long have you known Hannibal?”

“Since I was in graduate school,” Alana said, measured, calm. “He was my teacher.”

“You know him pretty well then.”

“I’d say so.”

“What do you think of him?”

Alana smiled softly at her, the old professionalism evident in the meaningless curve of her lips, and Abigail knew she wouldn’t answer. They walked in silence for a moment.

“What do _you_ think of him?” the older woman asked. Abigail's hand curled into a defiant fist at her side.

“I like him.”

“He saved your life,” she said, and this time she was casual, quiet. “How could you not?”

Abigail bristled.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“What's it like, then?”

Abigail turned and looked at the yard. An invisible hand twisted her insides, pulled uncomfortably at a festering sore.

“What do you think about adoption?”

“You mean for you?” Alana asked. Her alarm leaked into her tone, and Abigail frowned.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Alana admitted. “Particularly not with Hannibal.”

“Why not?” Abigail said.

“You and Hannibal went through a traumatic experience together. It bonds you, but it also makes it harder for you to move on. He’ll always be a trigger for you.”

Abigail shrugged.

“Everything’s a trigger for me,” she said. “Besides, I’d rather have Hannibal than the hospital any day.”

“It won’t always be the hospital,” Alana said, voice stern. “The decisions you make today will affect you for the rest of your life. You shouldn’t make them on impulse.”

“It’s not on impulse. I know Hannibal. I like Hannibal. He understands me. I don’t know what’s wrong with that.”

“Abigail,” she said. “You shouldn’t jump from one parental figure to another. You need time to grow. To deal.”

“I can deal with Hannibal. He helps me deal.”

Alana shook her head and looked away. For a minute, it seemed like she was going to keep arguing, keep pushing. Then she relaxed, shoulders loosening, eyes weary. Abigail could sense the moment the fight went out of her. She wondered if she’d already argued more than she meant to.

“Okay,” the older woman sighed. She turned to look at Abigail. “Tell me more about him, then.”

**xxx**

Hannibal’s Bentley shone unnaturally bright in the driveway of the hospital. It looked like it was against a green screen, some fantasy scene in a teen movie. Walking towards it, Abigail smiled.

“Where would we like to go today?” Hannibal said, opening her door for her.

“Oh, I get to choose?” she teased.

“I chose the opera for you,” he replied. “It seems only fair to allow you to choose my entertainment for the day.”

Abigail tapped her fingers on his leather interior, looking back at the receding hospital. Even from a distance, it looked cold and clinical. Like a manufactured home.

“I could do McDonald’s,” she admitted.

**xxx**

“Have you ever been through a drive-thru before?”

“Not willingly,” Hannibal said. His lips were tightly pursed as he handed her her food, laid out on one of his overly fancy plates. Abigail knew he took it as an insult, her preferring a dollar hamburger over his carefully cultivated cuisine, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not with the heady smell of grease filling the room and making her dizzy.

She only regretted making him angry. She'd never seen him purse his lips like that, pulling them into a thin, irritated line. It made her nervous. It made her miss his serious, intense gaze, his barely there smile. It made her want to bring it back.

“We never eat stuff like this in the hospital,” she said. “But it used to be a special treat at home."

She could see Hannibal's interest pique despite himself. He tilted his head at her, his mouth returning to its usual, placid pose. Turning away from him, she smiled and continued.

"My dad hated fast food because it was so processed, but we would get it on road trips or after big events," she said. "I remember one time I had a piano recital, and I ruined my dress afterwards by using it as a napkin."

She could see him smile in her periphery, slicing up his own dinner with casual precision.

“Food can evoke our most powerful memories," he said. "You taste the grease, and you remember special days with dad."

"Yeah, I guess," Abigail replied. She took a purposeful pause. "This reminds me of that."

"Is it a positive association?"

"Yes," she said, reaching greedily for her burger. Hannibal barely hid his grimace.

"Then I'm glad. Even if my nose must suffer."

She smiled and bit into her sandwich, groaning softly.

"I missed grease so much."

"I can only imagine."

"Thank you for taking me anyway," she said, setting her burger down and looking at him. Her stomach twisted as her conversation with Alana flashed in her mind.

"You're welcome." His usually calm voice was colored with tenderness.

"I really appreciate everything you've done for me, Hannibal. And not just the money."

He looked at her appraisingly, and she turned upwards, facing him fully. Her voice was firm.

"You and Will," she echoed. "You're important. You're my family now."

He walked to the other side of the counter first, and she met him halfway, wrapping her arms around him tightly. She hid her grin against his collarbone.

**xxx**

Will awoke gasping, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. It overwhelmed him. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything else, just clutched his sheets and watched in horror as the ridges of his ceiling paint twisted into corpses. Then a bark broke through the din, two barks, three, a whole host of them. All his dogs, howling outside the room. He wondered if he’d been screaming. Sweat soaked through the towel underneath him. It stuck to his skin, too tight, too strong, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was drowning in it.

Looking to his alarm clock, he began the mantra Hannibal had taught him. But he stopped abruptly when he saw it was melting, turning to liquid as it dripped down his nightstand. It fell at the rate of the heartbeats in his ears. On the side of his bed, he could see it join a puddle of water on the floor. Every drip turned the puddle redder, and he was fixated, watching as it spread across the room. The darkness moved across his rug. It stained the dirty laundry that lay in heaps on the floor. Slowly, it approached the door, where he could see his dogs’ paws in the light from the hallway. For a moment, he saw their fur, matted with blood.

Then he took a deep breath and, without thinking, jumped from the bed. Water splashed up his calves, soaking his legs, and he waded through it. He didn’t reach for a coat, didn’t pull on pants. He just moved, clicking his tongue so the dogs wouldn’t follow.

**xxx**

He hadn’t waited for his car to heat up before he’d driven, and his chattering teeth were the only sound as he whizzed down the interstate. He could see his quick breaths rising in front of him, white puffs of fog dissipating as soon as they appeared. He pushed his car to go faster, faster, the engine whining in protest. Behind him, the blood rose. He could almost feel it lapping at his heels, splashing up his calves.

The dream weighed heavier on his mind now. It distorted his vision, pulled at the street signs and headlights until they were nothing but slashed lines of color that shifted and bent until they were something else entirely.

He could see it all again, played out across the near-empty road. His stag standing on stage at the opera, the audience empty. Antlers dripping blood red, the actress dangling from them, impaled. Her voice filling the room. She was singing to the tune of Tobias’ serenade, and when Will’s skin crawled, he couldn’t tell whether it was in dread or anticipation.

From the audience, a clopping began. A doe, raven’s feathers covering her lithe frame, walked down the aisle.

He jolted awake at the sound of his car grinding against the median. The needle on his speedometer trembled, lingering on the highest value. He shook his head violently and let up on the gas pedal for a moment, continuing to drive.

**xxx**

Will barged into Hannibal’s entranceway as soon as the door was opened, his bare feet nearly numb from standing in the snow. He'd considered breaking in if Hannibal didn’t answer soon. Considered bursting through the window. Will knew he had to get in there, knew it was the only way to get the water to recede. It was following him. He’d had to leave to keep his dogs safe, to keep himself safe. He’d had to come here.

Hannibal was still in his pajamas, and Will relished in the sight of him, in the solidity of the image. Even softened by his sweater, he looked sharp, dangerous, comforting. Light emanated from him softly, a sign of the ever-present fire, and Will paced for a moment before giving up and heading towards him, basking in the glow. Dry for the moment, a horrifying thought occurred to him.

“I don’t know how I got here,” he said. He looked around at the entranceway, which was transformed in the darkness. “I was at home, and I had a nightmare, and I was here.”

Hannibal paused for a moment, looking down at Will. The older man's eyes were bottomless. They pulled him in, sucked him towards him, made him take another slow, shaking step.

“Your car is outside, so we know you drove,” Hannibal said. “Tell me about your nightmare.”

“It was the stag,” Will said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Hannibal’s light was spreading through the dark hallway, and he wanted more than anything to reach out and touch him, to feel the flames scorch his skin. But Hannibal had asked this from him, and he obeyed without thinking. “This… big, ravenstag. I know it. I mean, I’ve… I’ve seen it before. But it was different.”

Hannibal tilted his head at him, moving closer. They weren’t even an arms length apart now, and Will trembled, his fingers clenching. He imagined what it would feel like to be burned alive.

“It had a partner. A mate, maybe, or a child. A doe. And the stag, it was… it impaled the woman. From the opera.”

“Where were you?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t know,” Will said. His mind raced, struggling to remember where he’d been, what he’d been doing, how this had happened. “Somewhere. Someone. I saw it all. I don’t know. I saw it, and I blinked, and I was here.”

“You disassociated, Will. It’s a desperate survival mechanism for a psyche that endures repeated abuse.”

Will shook his head violently without thinking, grimaced and turned his gaze away.

“I’m not abused,” he said. He ignored the way he shook as he said it, ignored the way it felt more like reassuring himself than anything else. “I’m not.”

“You have an empathy disorder,” Hannibal insisted. “What you feel is overwhelming you, yet you choose to ignore it. That’s abuse.”

“I won’t quit.” His stomach churned.

“Why?”

“I’m saving lives,” he said, fists clenching. He tucked his hands in his armpits and rocked on his heels. The heat on his face was overpowering.

“What about your life? I’m your friend, Will. I don’t care about the lives you save. I care about you.”

Will shook his head again and felt his voice break, his tone desperate.

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s not. I know it’s not, I know who I am, I know what kind of crazy I am. Hannibal, it’s not — I’m sleepwalking, I’m having hallucinations, that’s not regular kind of crazy, that’s… that’s medical crazy, right, that’s brain scan crazy?”

Hannibal shook his head.

“Will, stop looking in the wrong corner for an answer to this.”

“I’m not,” he said. His eyes watered. “I’m not. Hannibal, I’m—”

The older man raised an arm, the fire raising with it, and Will broke, tears finally falling. “No,” he said, repeated, kept repeating as Hannibal’s hand pressed against his forehead. His whole body leaned into the touch, voice feeble, trembling. It wasn’t comforting. It was scalding, setting Will’s face alight with the angel maker’s fire. He stood so close. So close Will could see everything, and _oh, those whites are really white_ mixed with watching Hannibal on the balcony and fell into Hannibal in his destroyed office, eyes wide and broken and vulnerable. He could see it all, every step that brought them here, every crime scene and therapy appointment and hospital visit.

And it was too much for him, too much, too much, and then he was kissing him, pulling him tight against his body. Hannibal’s hand was pressed uncomfortably between them, and the older man moved it, gripping Will’s hips instead. Will rutted against him. He kissed him harshly, sloppily. He let their noses bump and pushed Hannibal harder, pushed him until he was backed against a wall, until Will was flush against him.

He was on fire, burning, choking on smoke, and he couldn’t stop. He pulled his lips away from Hannibal’s and buried his face in his neck, biting and sucking as the doctor gasped for breath. Fingers wove their way into his hair. They held tight, pulled, and Hannibal’s moan tumbled from his mouth and lingered in the air. Will was rock hard, but he didn’t know why, didn’t know if it was the man or the violence, him or his mind. His skin singed. This was his punishment, his reward, his everything. He could smell his flesh burning.

Hannibal tugged on his hair again, harder this time. Will followed the implicit request and raised his head to look at him. They were both panting.

“Stay with me,” Hannibal said. His grip on his hair was firm, and Will couldn’t help but look at him, into his eyes. This time, they looked like ice, dimming the fire. A dam broke inside him, and he breathed easy again.

“Where else would I go?” he said, and the older man released his hold. A part of Will wanted to move away as well, to excuse what he’d just done, but he couldn’t. He wanted too badly to stay where he was — to let Hannibal hold him until the nightmares went away.

Hannibal seemed to sense what Will was thinking and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around him. A whimper pulled at the younger man’s throat and broke from his chest in tears. He buried his face in his collar.

“Shh,” Hannibal said. His voice was smooth, solid. The ragged edges from earlier had left as his breath returned. “It’s alright.”

Will burbled in response, the noise low and desperate. Hannibal’s hand ran across his back. He took up a comforting rhythm. Steady, consistent. Will's breathing began to slow.

“We’ll take you to the hospital,” Hannibal said. He tilted his chin slightly, and Will felt his lips against the top of his head. The tears had begun to cease, falling slowly, quietly now.

He bit back his thanks and forced himself to lift his head and look at him again. The older man's soft smile tugged at Will's chest. Hannibal reached up to cup his cheek.

“Come on," he said. "I’ll drive you home.”

**xxx**

The next morning, Will waited nervously inside the hospital’s lobby. He’d taken Hannibal's lead and gotten a cab across state lines to get here. He couldn’t help it. The thought of seeing Hannibal’s face had arrested him, made his stomach curl into tiny knots, and so he’d taken a cue from the older man and avoided the early morning pick-up.

A nurse walked him into the visitation room with little fanfare. As always, they didn’t speak. In the room, Will was surprised to find Hannibal had beaten him here again. His stomach tied itself into its now-familiar nervous formations.

“Hello,” he said. His voice broke on the second syllable, and he winced. At this rate, he would be as transparent to Abigail as he was to Hannibal.

“Hi,” Abigail said. It was all Will could do to flick his eyes over to her for a moment, to see her reassuring smile. He was completely focused on Hannibal.

The older man didn’t look any different. He smiled at Will just as Abigail had, but there was nothing new in that smile, no flush or nervous tremble. Will’s heart sank.

He stood there for an awkward moment, waiting for something more, before pulling out a chair in the circular table.

“I have something to tell you two,” Abigail said. She sounded almost as nervous as he felt, and for the first time that day, Will refocused his attention on her. Her head was held high, but her hands kept moving, fidgeting in her lap. His stomach knots were replaced by the heavy weight of concern deep in his belly.

“Freddie Lounds wants to write a book about me.”

Will snapped his head up, meeting her eyes. Even Hannibal’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Does she?” the older man said, voice measured. Under it, Will could hear the same currents running through his own mind. _Over my dead body._

The younger man took a moment to respond. He was still cautious around Abigail, could remember only too well the feeling of her jerking her hand away at the opera. He wanted her to respect him, to care for him as she cared for Hannibal. For her real father. He was just trying to remember that it took time.

“I’m trying to be understated when I say that is a very bad idea,” he said. Despite himself, his voice sounded tight, anger and bitterness hid under every syllable. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her hands.

“I know,” she said. “I said no.”

The tension drained from the room. Will looked away from her gratefully, focusing on the wood of the table again. He was itching to reach for the loose aspirin in amongst the lint in his pocket.

“Good,” he said, his voice quieter, almost a mumble. “I mean smart. And good.”

“You did the right thing, Abigail,” Hannibal said. His smile was wider now, lips quirked higher.

“She offered me money,” Abigail admitted. “A lot of it.”

Hannibal reached out for her hand, and Will couldn't help but frown. Envy ate at him.

“You were good to refuse it. Deals made with Ms. Lounds are never quite what they seem.”

“Yeah,” she said, a note of humor in her voice. “You shouldn’t make deals with the devil. Even for money."

Hannibal withdrew, dropping his hands, and Will frowned. He was missing something. He could tell in the way Hannibal had stiffened, in the way his smile had gone from friendly to almost reproachful. He wondered if Hannibal was irritated Abigail wasn’t taking him seriously.

“Now now, Abigail,” he said. “Ms. Lounds is not the devil.”

“She’s close enough,” Will grumbled, pushing away his concerns about their awkward moment. Abigail smiled conspiratorially at him in response, and giddiness filled his throat.

“Good job anyway,” he said again. He fidgeted in his seat for a moment. “I’m proud of you.”

“And I am as well,” Hannibal said. His reproachful look was long gone.

**xxx**

They ate in only slightly uncomfortable silence. Abigail was clearly pleased to have food that hadn't been cooked in the hospital kitchen. She dug in with gusto, eating quickly enough to make Hannibal wince. Will noticed every time Hannibal winced; he noticed every time Hannibal blinked. He couldn't help it. Once the cause of Abigail's distress had become apparent, he'd been left with nothing to do but to wonder again about the kiss. His eyes kept flicking over from his food to the older man's face, waiting for him to break. Will's knee bounced restlessly. Forget breaking; he was waiting for any sort of indication that last night had happened at all.

He let his knee move faster, rise higher, the rhythm comforting him. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go. He really, _really_ wanted to kiss Hannibal again.

As he thought, the older man turned his head towards him. With a loud knock, Will’s leg collided with the table. He bit back a swear and smiled nervously,

Abigail gave him a suspicious look, tilting her head over her plate, but she lost interest quickly, returning to her food. Will took a deep breath, aching knee beginning to bounce again, and—

He froze.

Hannibal's hand was heavy on his knee, holding him still. The older man gave no indication of what was going on underneath the table, but Will couldn't help but be consumed by it. The simple movement refocused him. Reoriented his world. For a moment, everything was contained in the burning of Hannibal's hand on his knee, the gesture he'd have to be stupid not to understand. Not after Hannibal kept his hand there, not after his thumb began to rub soft circles on his kneecap.

It drove every other thought from his mind. His nervousness, his doubt. Abigail, Jack. Everything, absolutely everything, was there, in that simple point of contact.

For the first time in a long time, he could breathe.

**xxx**

Alana had been in his office for half an hour, paperwork in hand and an excuse on her lips, when Hannibal set his wine down on the side table. 

“So” he said. “Tell me what you came here to discuss.”

Alana smiled wrily at him.

“Who knew I was so transparent,” she said, sighing. “It’s about Abigail. I can’t help but feel like you’re hindering her growth.” Hannibal frowned, looking down at his glass.

“I believe my presence has given her a sense of stability. One you must agree she needs.”

“Hannibal, you can’t be stability for her. Abigail isn’t just looking for hospital visits from you anymore. She’s looking for family, and as time goes on, she’s only going to become more attached.”

“Have you considered the possibility that Abigail’s wants align with my own?”

“You want to be Abigail’s family.”

Hannibal nodded, leaning forward. Alana shook her head and looked out the window.

“She shouldn’t just jump from parental unit to parental unit. She needs to learn how to be on her own.”

“She’s a child, Alana. She should have someone supporting her.”

“She may be a child, but she’s going to have to face the world. She’s going to struggle with money, with people’s perceptions of her. She needs to prepare for that.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You can’t protect her from the world, Hannibal.”

“No, but I can give her an ally in her fight. I can make sure she can go to school, that she doesn’t have to work.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying? This is more than being a surrogate parent, Hannibal. You’re talking about adoption.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, catching Alana’s gaze. His voice was somber.

“Freddie Lounds wants Abigail to write a book about her experiences. She was manipulating her. Using her trauma against her.”

“That doesn’t mean you should take her trauma on.”

“I won’t be,” Hannibal said. “But I do believe I could help her to deal with it on her own.”

Alana paused, taking a sip of her beer and setting it on the table as well. Hannibal knew the information about Freddie Lounds had been an unexpected blow to her argument. If there was one thing they both wanted for Abigail, it was for her to stay away from that woman.

There was also the unsaid fact lying in the air — without Hannibal, Abigail would have to work for every penny. Once she turned 18, she wouldn’t have money to keep seeing Alana, to keep seeing any therapist. Hannibal would be the least of her worries.

“Abigail is not my only concern,” Alana said. She looked up and locked eyes with him. “I don’t want you to wake up one morning and realize you adopted a child because you felt guilty.”

Hannibal reached out deliberately. His hands wrapped around hers.

“I don’t feel guilty,” he said. He let the corners of his lips rise into a smile. “I did no wrong to her or to Garrett Jacob Hobbs. But I do care a great deal for Abigail, and I would enjoy it if she were a permanent fixture in my life.”

Alana’s eyes bore into his for a moment, and then she visibly relaxed, shoulders loosening. She leaned back, and her hands fell away from his.

“I believe you,” she said. “Mostly.” Her voice was a warning, tentative approval. “But I still don’t know if I recommend this.”

“I will, of course, keep you on as Abigail’s therapist,” Hannibal added. “So you can continue to approve and disapprove of my actions as you wish.”

Alana raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you expect to do more things I’ll disapprove of?”

Hannibal smiled playfully, unintentionally wolfish.

“Always.”

**xxx**

Will was aware of everything in the near-empty hospital hallway. It was a place that set his mind running, every room filled with unrestrained emotion, past and present. It kept his heart beating fast, sweat on his brow. Next to him, Hannibal wasn’t helping. The older man was too much for him on a good day. Now, he could hardly think of anything but their nearly-grazing elbows, the solidity of Hannibal’s chest beneath his well-tailored suit jacket. His mind replayed their kiss over and over again, stopping only to remember his hand warm on his thigh. Will’s own fingers clenched tighter to the armrest.

“Do you feel alright?” Hannibal asked. His voice had taken on the same probing quality it did during therapy appointments, and Will could’ve groaned. It wasn’t the time for psychotherapy, not when the mere possibility of a groan sent him back to Hannibal’s soft moan, to his hands tight in his curls. He flushed.

“Yes,” he said. “More than alright. Eager, even.”

“An unusual reaction. Most are afraid to find something wrong with their brain. You seem excited.”

“It’ll mean I wasn’t wrong,” Will said. He twisted in his cheap wooden chair, looking the older man in the eyes. He and Hannibal were maddeningly close. He could see the sparks flying, the flames dangerously near his face. His fingers twitched. “That I do know what kind of crazy I am.”

“You seem to—”

Will huffed and cut him off with a kiss, their noses bumping together in his eagerness. The fire travelled again, from where their lips met to his shoulders to where the cheap wooden arms of the chair dug into his stomach, and he fought back a pleased groan. After a moment, Hannibal pulled away, bemused.

“You can tell me if you’re uninterested in a topic of conversation, Will,” he said. Will laughed and leaned in again. Their kiss was longer this time, a slow burn. It spread pleasantly down to his toes, burning brightest where Hannibal’s hand slid into Will’s hair. The hand guided him. It tilted his head so Hannibal could deepen the kiss, so his tongue could slide across Will’s bottom lip. He smiled as he pulled away.

“I’ve been thinking about that for a while,” he admitted, leaning back in his seat. He let his eyes close as his head fell against the wall.

“I’m glad you alerted me to it then,” Hannibal said. Will could hear the amused note in his voice and reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly. Even with his eyes closed, he could see the light of the flame.

“Should we return to our previous topic of conversation, then? Or did you find it as boring as I first believed?”

Will shook his head. The wall stayed solid against it, even as his shoes began to fill with water.

“I think maybe I should get a new therapist.”

“Really?” Hannibal said. His voice was stiff, and Will tried to ignore the sweat building up under his arms.  

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what Beverly said.”

“About ethics.”

“Yes.”

Will could see Hannibal’s frown in his peripherie. The back of his neck was hot, his shirt damp. He was melting, melting, his sweat puddling at his feet. He couldn’t  remember the last time he argued with Hannibal like this.

“You believe I am being unethical.”

“No,” Will said instinctually. Something in him resisted slandering Hannibal that way, took the full credit for where their relationship had gone. He’d been the one to kiss him, after all.

“I struggle to see the problem, then.”

“I don’t think you’re unethical. I just… I think… I mean, I’m your patient. And we’re…”

“What are we?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. His hand was the only dry part of him now, its flame keeping the ocean at bay. His sweat had transformed, and it was drowning him.

“You have never been my patient, Will.”

His laugh came out sounding more like a wheeze.

“By a technicality.”

“Nevertheless,” Hannibal said. “You are not my patient. And I see nothing wrong with our relationship.”

“With crossing boundaries.”

“But not violating them. Do you trust me not to violate your boundaries, Will?”

Will turned his head towards him, the wall still steady against it. Something in his chest twinged, and he found that he did. He did trust Hannibal. With anything, with everything. And he didn’t want that to change.

“Of course,” he breathed. He felt the ocean retreat, his body dry once again.

**xxx**

“You found nothing?” Will said. Desperation lay heavy in his tone.

“Nothing,” the doctor confirmed.

Next to him, Hannibal put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

**xxx**

“I’ve been speaking with Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal said. Abigail walked over to him, resting her hand on his desk. She noted his sketch. Her face, faintly outlined in pencil. The distinct shape of Will’s jaw, his carefully drawn eyes. The accuracy of the depiction made her breath catch in her throat.

“Really?” she said, wrenching her gaze away. “What about?”

Hannibal looked up at her and set his pencil down carefully.

“Adoption."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Adoption?”

“Yes.”

He let the word linger in the air for a long moment, and she stood, waiting for him to say something else. He remained silent.

“What about adoption?”

“She wished to advise against it. Evidently, she felt there was some danger of it occurring.”

“Is there?”

“After our conversation? Almost certainly.”

“So she didn’t convince you.”

“I believe I was more effective in convincing her.”

“I think I might’ve done some of that work for you,” Abigail admitted, averting her eyes again. Cautiously, she reached for the drawing, and Hannibal moved obligingly to allow her to take it.

She held it up to the light. The detail was impeccable — her too-tight sleeves, the deep, dark bags under Will’s eyes. On the floor, she could see the shadow Hannibal had cast. He was there too, observing. It was the three of them. Together.

“Is this what you want?” Abigail asked, and she looked up at him. He smiled at her, and a chill rolled inexplicably down her spine. The shadow on the page flashed across her eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

Abigail set the paper back down, looking at it again. At second glance, the scene was anything but eerie. Will and Abigail, smiling. More comfortable than they’d been in months. Hannibal, watching over them. It was beautiful, really. Undoubtedly.

“Me too,” she admitted. “Me too.”


End file.
